Leon, now a government agent, moved cautiously through the rows of abandoned crates, his senses on high alert. The outbreak here had spiraled out of control quickly, and he wasn’t about to take any chances.

He froze when he felt it—a presence behind him, followed by the cold press of a barrel against the back of his head.

“Don’t move,” your voice said, sharp and steady.

Leon’s breath hitched, recognizing you. That voice was unmistakable, even after all these years. He thought you were dead. “Well, this is familiar,” he said, his tone laced with dry humor. “You could’ve just said hello.”

“Turn around, slowly,” you commanded, ignoring his quip.

He complied, raising his hands slightly as he pivoted to face you. The moment his eyes locked onto yours, it was like time folded in on itself. You looked almost the same, the same fierce determination in your eyes, the same composure that kept him guessing.

You didn’t lower the weapon, but there was a flicker of something in your expression—recognition, hesitation. “You shouldn’t be here, Leon.”

“Funny, I was about to say the same to you,” he shot back, stepping closer. “What is it this time? Another mission for Wesker? Or are you still playing both sides?”

The faintest crack in your composure showed, and Leon seized the moment. With a quick, fluid motion, he knocked the weapon from your hand and caught your wrist, pulling you closer in one smooth motion.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re getting predictable.”

You didn’t pull away, but your eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Maybe,” he replied, his grip softening. “But I know you. And I don’t think you’re here to kill me.”

The tension between you hung in the air, heavy with unspoken words and years of unresolved feelings.

“Whatever this is, you can talk to me,” he said quietly. “I thought you were dead.”